The Journal
by Insanely-Yours96
Summary: Dumbledore gives Harry a journal the summer after his fifth year to vent in about Sirius' death. Little does Harry know that the journal is two way, corresponding with Severus Snape. Warning: Angst, mentions of abuse, smart/deductive Harry, eventual slash.


3:17 am, July 26th (27th?)

Dumbledore gave me this after I wrecked his office, and, while it's creepily reminiscent of Riddle's diary, I trust Dumbledore not to give me a horcrux without telling me as much. I still can't believe I tore up his office when I threw my little temper tantrum like a bloody child. Sure, I'm plenty angry, but taking my grief of Sirius' death out on the Headmaster certainly isn't the smartest move. Just when I thought I was beginning to take control of my emotions Bellatrix went and murdered my godfather.

Looking at mine and Sirius' relationship from an outsider's perspective, I've got to think I ought not be so broken up over his death. I mean, sure, I've known and liked him since the end third year (after I knew he hadn't betrayed mum and James and gotten them murdered), but we had hardly any correspondence in fourth year and only lived together for a bit before the start of fifth.

And still I feel like a piece of me is missing with him gone—how melodramatic is that? Really, I barely bloody knew him. Then again, I'm probably just feeling guilty. I did get him killed, after all—I've gotten too many people killed. Mum, James, Cedric and Sirius. Probably a ton more, now that I think've it; I'm pretty sure Neville's parents were tortured because of me. They were the only other ones that fit the bill for the prophecy and they ended up mad in St. Mungo's. I'm sure living like that, unable to remember so much of your life, your own son, is worse than dying. It certainly is worse-off for Neville. The way he looked at the picture Sirius gave me of the Order… I pity him. Don't think I'd be able to stand watching mum raving mad, though from what I know James wasn't far off from it in life.

Everyone has always painted James to be a hero; brave, chivalrous and down-right exceptional. Nobody other than Snape had the decency to tell me the truth: my dad was a pompous arse and a bully. When I confronted Sirius and Remus about the memory I saw in Snape's pensive do you know what they had the nerve to say?

With Sirius, it was some rubbish about how he'd been bored and they were having a bit of fun; "Snivellus deserved it, you know, Harry. Git, that one."

Remus told me I ought not think badly of James, that he was only fifteen when they'd done it, and I demanded to know why he hadn't stepped in and done something. He was a prefect, damn it.

"Your dad was only fifteen, Harry—we were just kids." How old am I, Remus? I'm bloody fifteen and I would _never_ even think of doing that to someone else—why would anyone want to humiliate someone like that? As to why Remus hadn't stopped James and Sirius, he just told me he'd been afraid of losing their friendships. That day was the first time I've ever thought Remus a coward.

I suppose James must've grown up a bit—hopefully a lot—in his sixth or seventh year for mum to have married him, but I still can't get over the fact that I'm living in the shadow of somebody so evil (/marked out) cruel. It's ridiculous. I can't even think of him as my dad any more—he's just James, the guy that impregnated mum and stuck me with his sodding looks.

…

Really, what am I even supposed to write in this bloody thing? I feel like I'm venting into a diary; good job, Harry, very manly. Then again, I've never cared much for masculinity. Don't know whether it has something to do with me being gay or my just not minding girlish stuff so much as Ron does. Then again, that prat minds everything; he's dim enough to be jealous of nearly being offed in a graveyard.

How would he feel if he'd inadvertently caused the death of multiple people, including his own parents, and then had at least one encounter with Voldemort for every year, save one, since he was eleven? I reckon rather depressed.

I guess I'm pretty depressed myself.

But enough of that, I best try and get another hour or two of sleep before Petunia wakes me to make breakfast and do the chores. If I had the ingredients I'd brew some more dreamless sleep, but I've already ran out. At least I've finally managed to hold the silencing charm around my bed wandlessly when I sleep; it's a bit draining, but I don't have to hear Dudley and his gang tease me about having a boyfriends named Cedric and Sirius that I'm always moaning about in my sleep.

I reckon a wet dream would be a relief compared to visions and nightmares.

Night, then. Haven't decided yet if I'll write when I'm actually lucid; I'm sure a diary'll seem even stupider then.

…

1:42 am, August 1st

It's times like these when I hate having ever been allowed the luxury of a warm shower, because I could really use one right now.

As per usual for my birthday, the Dursley's worked me harder than ever; Petunia woke me at five in the morning to start an early breakfast and do my chores. While I've never had the luxury of sleeping in (unless confined to the hospital wing by Madam Pomfrey), I was actually enjoying my rest, because, for the first time in over a year, without the use of a potion, I didn't dream. It was fantastic and restful and blissful and all around great—until, of course, Petunia unlocked my room and snapped at me to get up.

I was still a bit dazed while cooking, so I burnt three pieces of the bacon and pulled out one of the pieces of toast too late. Of course, as punishment I received no meals all day and, instead of letting me use the lawnmower, Petunia gave me a pair of scissors to trim the yard and the shrubs. Seeing as I haven't eaten in three days now, my hands were shaky and I was dizzy and kept falling into stupid daydreams about the Hogwarts feasts.

After trimming everything up, I did the usual routine of watering everything and pulling out any weeds that might've grown in Petunia's garden—sure, I have to plant and maintain everything, but she calls it hers. After the yard-work, I rearranged the furniture in the living room, swept every surface of the house for dust and cleaned all fourteen windows and the sliding glass door. Dudley and his new mate, Trevor, (who resembles a rat more than a boy) brewed something or another in the upstairs tub that consisted of mud, cheese, construction paper and food coloring. I really don't know what the point was, but I'm guessing he just wanted to tell Petunia that I'd done it, because when she saw she turned Vernon's normal shade of purple and shouted at me to clean it up.

The worst part is that she actually stayed and watched the grueling process—I can never work well with someone watching me. To get off her bad side for the fiasco that I had nothing to do with, I deep-cleaned all the rugs and the bathrooms and made her favorite dish for lunch; not that she'd admit anything I can make is her favorite, of course. By the time I did a bit of sweeping, vacuuming, mopping and arranging Vernon was home for work and I made them pasta and breadsticks for dinner. Cooking something your aren't allowed to eat when you haven't been fed in several days is, by no means, fun, so after making it and checking with Petunia I went up to my room and promptly passed out, hungry and dizzy and filthy from all my chores.

I woke up a few hours later to the sound of owls tapping on the window—of course, I had to hurry and let them in before I was punished—and only then remembered that it was my birthday.

Here's the count: a foe glass (that'll come in handy!), a sneakoscope, chocolates, various Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products, a small basket of goodies and Weasley sweater, more chocolates, a new chess set, a planner, a Quibbler subscription, more chocolates (this box from a secret admirer, so I'd rather not eat them for fear of love potion) and ten gallons.

I was semi-disappointed, but not surprised, to see that Hermione got me the same old planner that she does every year and Ron got me the same box of chocolates. It's a bit sad, realizing your friends don't even know you enough to know what to get you for gifts—still, at least they gave me something. I remember being shell-shocked first year's Christmas at all the gifts I'd gotten; it was so amazing! People had actually liked me enough to buy me things for the first time. It was one of the best feelings I've ever had, and is what I sometimes think of when using the Patronus Charm.

Well, I think I'd better turn in; I'm exhausted, and even when passing out earlier I still dreamed of Sirius falling through the veil.

…

8:15 am, August 1st

Dursley's are out for the day. I'm already out of spare parchment so I'll write down my findings and observations here.

_The Sophisticated Art_ by Frances Gelson:

Aconite and dragon blood – violent reaction; both needed, find ingredient to stabilize

Spirit of Myrrh – disinfectant properties; may help cleansing process

Romanian Longhorn Dragon horn – powdered; purifies

Dragon Blood – masks presence, heals external injuries, cleanses; research further

Bat wings – too many noted side effects

Unicorn hair – commonly used in wands; strong magic and healing properties; creates violent reaction in dark potions

Note: Purchase book with ingredients for Wolfsbane potion; _The Inner Man Transformed_ by Michaela Gateswood is useless.

Goosegrass – medical properties, specifics unmentioned

Scarab beetle – used in skele-gro; makes potions exceptionally foul tasting; unusable

Powdered Graphorn horn – aggressive mental healing properties; read more

Horklump juice – when combined with flobberworm mucus, billywig steam slime and chizpurfle has healing properties; reacts badly with Goosegrass

Shredded Dittany – necessary ingredient

Moly – counteracts enchantments; possible base for stabilizing ingredients

Unicorn horn – necessary ingredient

Wiggentree bark – protective against dark creatures; burns werewolf's; dangerous for potion but possibly necessary

_Wrong_.

Stewed Mandrake – helps th…

Wrong? Did I write that?

_No_.

Fuck. You _are_ a horcrux. Bloody brilliant.

_Incompetent as always, Potter. This is a two-way journal._

Okay? Then who's on the other end—and why haven't you written until now?

_I put the book in my trunk and thus hadn't seen it glowing until I opened it. Your dismal Potions knowledge astounds me._

Glowing? And I don't much mind you thinking my Potions skill is horrid, thanks, but if you see something I missed will you please correct me? I've gotten all of the following out of various books.

_Yes, when a new entry is made in enchanted journals they glow. What books are you reading? Wiggentree bark does not burn werewolves but is deadly if consumed. Goosegrass has no medical properties unless combined with the proper ingredients and is very temperamental. _

_The Sophisticated Art_ by Frances Gelson, _Key Ingredients of the Nineteenth Century _by Ross Kelvings and _Dark Potions _by Amelia G. Prewett. What ingredients make Goosegrass have medical properties, and then what properties does it have?

Key Ingredients _and_ The Sophisticated Art_ are both outdated and there have been several contradictions since their publishing, including the Wiggentree werewolf theory. As for _Dark Potions_, it astounds me that Gryffindor's Golden Boy would get within fifteen feet of anything with "dark" in its title._

I'm looking to create a potion, not go off and join Voldemort, and, believe it or not, darker spells are quite interesting to me. By breaking them down you can find how to heal the damage one creates. Any book suggestions, then, if you are so knowledgeable on the subject?

_Experimenting with dark spells is just the first step to becoming dark yourself. I should think a shield charm proficient. As for books, there are many, though most all of _Jared Burnsnell's _novels were quite helpful when I was learning to brew._

Just because I can usually get a shield up in time to save myself does not mean everyone around me will be so lucky—something could reflect and hit a friend or classmate, and then most of the Death Eaters curses aren't healable by normal means. Thanks for the suggestion—does 'when I was learning' suggest that you've already mastered the art?

_There are Professors to deal with such a situation, Potter. I am proficient, though nobody has truly _mastered_ the delicate art._

When somebody is bleeding out in front of you, and quickly, you can't exactly run to find a Professor to help. Are you a student at Hogwarts?

_You can put pressure on the wound until help arrives. No._

And if there are multiple wounds, all bleeding the same amount, cursed not to be shut by conventional means? A Professor, then?

_That is just another reason not to learn such a spell. You ought not be tempted to use it. Perhaps. Why the curiosity? _

It's too late for that. Not knowing, that is. I like to imagine I have enough control not to use dark spells on anyone, save Voldemort. Why wouldn't I want to know who I'm talking to?

_How did you learn such a curse? And from the temper tantrum written in an early entry, I think you might not have so much control._

I've seen it in action, that's how. Do you know me?

_Where? Who doesn't know you, Potter?_

Why should I answer your questions without knowing you? For all I know, you are Voldemort.

_Yes, Potter, because I, the Dark Lord, am taking time from my day to read about your home problems and write to you. It's a ploy to gain your trust. And Albus Dumbledore himself gave me the other journal just for that purpose. He is a very thoughtful man._

I'm clutching my sides.

_Is that supposed to impress me?_

I'd given up impressing you a long time ago, Professor Snape.

_I wasn't under the impression that you'd ever tried._

I did.

_Dismal attempts, no doubt._

Of course. That is all Harry Potter is capable of, after all. Dismal attempts.

_I agree._

Sir, are you aware of any plans to move me this summer? Any set dates?

_I am._

Can I ask when?

_I don't know, Potter, _can_ you?_

_May _I ask (/crossed out) Goodbye, sir.

_Goodbye, Potter._

…

_August 21st is the set date as of now. _

…

Severus Snape sighed and massaged his temples, trying to calm his insistent headache. Even his normal brew of migraine potion had done nothing to help it. He imagined he was building a tolerance to the medication.

Snape was sitting at his desk in a small cottage just outside of Wales in North East England. He wordlessly summoned a bottle of Ogden's finest and a tall glass to drink it out of, hoping the buzz of the alcohol would banish the pain in his head. Opening his top desk drawer to retrieve his bottle opener, Snape was surprised to see the journal lighting up, as he thought Potter would stop corresponding once he found out who he was talking to; it had been little under a week since their last conversation and, after checking the journal the first two days, Snape decided he was being ridiculous and shoved it in his top drawer so he wouldn't have to see it.

Opening it, alcohol temporarily forgotten, Snape's eyebrows rose in surprise. Two words lay in Harry's semi-messy scrawl: "_Thank you_."

Snape grabbed his red automatic inking quill he normally used for grading papers and was about to write "You're welcome." when three crimson drops appeared on the page.

…

Sir, are you there?

_Yes._

I need to get out of this house.

_Indeed?_

Yes. _Please_.

_And why do you want to leave your doting relatives, Potter?_

Professor, we had Occlumency lessons over two dozen times last year and you gave the impression you'd read my two earlier entries before we began talking. You should know my relatives aren't doting.

_Punishment should be dealt to those who have done wrong, Potter._

Professor, what wrong deserves to be punished with a fist, four days without food and two without water? I burnt bacon and toast, Professor, I didn't explode a room or speak unless I was spoken to. I didn't grovel or curse or lie or steal or miss a spot while cleaning or cry during a beating.

_A beating?_

Forget it, Professor. You've seen parts of it during lessons; the cupboard and the starvation. You just want to believe I'm the clone of James sodding Potter and that I deserve everything that happens to me—that I deserve getting beaten and not fed and detentions for things that I haven't done. That I deserve your verbal abuse and that I deserve my parents dying and that I deserve feeling every bloody Cruciatus curse Voldemort throws at your lot during meetings. Get stuffed, Snape. I'm done.

…

Harry slammed his enchanted journal and threw it straight across the room, where it fell into a small box that he had been using as a trash bin and burst into flames. He watched as it, and then the box, was consumed by flames, glaring all the while.

Snape could sod off. Harry had just taken one of the worst beatings of his life, hadn't been fed in nearing five days and was covered in bruises. He was pretty sure at least two or three of his ribs were broken and his collar bone was fractured, making it hard to hold his head up straight.

Harry removed his shirt and spat blood onto the hardwood flood, going over to his closet and sliding it open to exam himself in the full-body mirror Petunia had stored in there for Merlin knew how long.

The letters "F-R-E-A-K" were reflected backwards, carved into his torso. Under it was a purple and yellowing mess which he tenderly touched—_ow_. Merlin, that hurt.

Each breath was a challenge. He could see the wrong, awkward angle of his bottom ribs under his skin. He moved carefully to sit, knowing that he could puncture something or another if he wasn't careful enough. He thought about turning to check out the belt marks that surely abhorred his back, but even breathing hurt and he could barely hold up his head, never the less turn to look over his shoulder.

His hair, which had always stayed more or less the same length since he was a child, had grown quite a bit since the end of fifth year; Harry, after discovering what a downright arse his dad had been, wished he didn't look so much like him. Apparently he had some sort of dormant metamorphmagus gene like Tonks, because it'd actually worked—he couldn't do anything drastic, of course, but growing his hair at a rapid rate certainly seemed to be within his reach.

He should probably be attempting to wandlessly heal himself, but the angry adrenaline had already left him and just setting fire to the journal had taken it out of him. He'd never been good at medical spells with his wand, so trying it without was always risky. Being malnourished and dizzy/nauseous beyond belief couldn't possibly improve his skills.

Harry met his own green eyes in the mirror. He loved his eyes. It was the one thing every one said to him: "Harry! You look just like your dad did—oh, except your eyes, of course, those are all Lily!"

Maybe his mum wasn't the best person who'd ever lived—hell, maybe she had been a terrible person (which he largely doubted, because he'd seen her vehemently defend the younger, bullied version of Snape)—but still, it was nice to have some part of her with him. Something other than the flashing green light in his nightmares and the high pitched scream he heard when Dementor's came about.

Taking a deep breath, Harry glared at himself. "Suck it up, Potter. Be a man. Rub some dirt in it," he said mockingly, and then, grimacing, forced himself to put pressure on the bloody letters.

He immediately felt like screaming as his vision became hazy and grey around the edges. A whimper of protest forced itself out of his mouth, but he determinedly ignored it and tried to push past the urge to just lie down and let himself die.

_Breathe. Just hold it there. Breathe. Don't black out. Breathe, damn it._

…

_Oh, fuck, that's smoke you're breathing in now. Great, genius. You didn't put out the fire. Brilliant. Now you're going to black out and burn to death. Fan-bloody-tastic. _

"Potter," a voice snapped.

Then sweet, blissful blackness.


End file.
